Hang
by Kansas J. Miller
Summary: Simon meets CJ after the shooting at Rosslyn


TITLE: Hang  
  
AUTHOR: Kansas J. Miller  
  
RATING: PG  
  
PAIRING: CJ/Simon  
  
SPOILERS: ISOTG  
  
SUMMARY: Simon meets CJ after Rosslyn.  
  
AUTHOR NOTE: This is a totally random post-ISOTG piece. Simon first person POV. Written in less than an hour, please be gentle :)  
  
~*~  
  
She looked like a real bitch. I hate to say that, knowing what I now do, but if you lay it out straight, she looked like a bitch.  
  
I remember the first time she swept past me and the other agents in order to speak with the President. Her speed created a breeze tinted with perfume, and when her voice grew loud enough for me to understand every word, I decided that I didn't like her.  
  
CJ Cregg. Press Secretary extraordinaire. That's what they'd say about her up at Treasury, whenever her name would come up. It was the truth; she was good at her job and entirely devoted. Spending all the months that I did on the President's detail, late nights would always find her left in the West Wing, working well past the time that Bartlet did.  
  
I used to stand against a wall outside of the Oval Office, discreetly working towards invisibility. The senior staff was in and out all day, and I'd be lying if I said that she stood out any more than Josh, Leo, Toby, or Sam did. They were all just a blur of faces and voices-the action in that office was never-ending. But there were times that she'd come out of the office first, times when she'd stand near Mrs. Landingham's desk and just compose herself.  
  
She'd look at the ground, clutching her notebook. I guess it was hard to be a woman in a man's job and I don't suppose they made it easier for her. But when she was on that television screen spinning to the press, there was no denying that she kicked ass.  
  
But in the grand scheme of things, how much time did I actually spend thinking about CJ Cregg? Very little if you consider that my job revolved around the President..Eight hours a day of constant focus: it was easy to be oblivious to everything but work.  
  
Immediately after the shooting, after my mind finally grasped what had happened, I went to the hospital. I spoke with Leo McGarry at the request of Ron Butterfield, and as I was leaving, I saw her. She was in the waiting room with Toby and Sam, and some other people whose faces I recognized but whose names I didn't. They all looked stressed, tired, utterly and completely frightened. It wasn't easy for me to understand. I'd been trained to deal with traumatic events, to treat them like regularities. This fazed me little after I managed to cut off emotion.  
  
But when CJ walked out of the waiting room, I heard her footsteps behind me. We were both leaving, both walking down the same hallway towards the hospital exit. I pushed my way out the swinging door and stopped, catching the cold metal in my hand. She passed slowly through as I held it for her, her eyes so deep a blue that they appeared black.  
  
"Thanks," she smiled but barely, and I fell into step beside her.  
  
"You bumped your head tonight," I stated, looking for any reason to strike conversation with her. She didn't look like a bitch this night, not in the least.  
  
"I'll live," she said dryly, her eyes sweeping up and down the street in search of a cab. "Are you headed back to the White House?" I asked, suddenly concerned because memory served that CJ Cregg was never this quiet. Shaking my head, I forced myself to remember that to her, the night had been a medley of horror, fear and chaos.  
  
"Yeah," she turned, looking me straight in the eye for the first time. Her hair was tucked haphazardly behind her ears and even though she was tired and tousled, I had no trouble imagining that she could look good.  
  
"Let me drive you, I'm going there, too," I offered, gesturing to the lot where I'd parked my suburban.  
  
CJ nodded and we walked to the car in silence. I unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for her. As she stepped up into the truck, she raised her brow at me, as if chivalry had no place in the terror of a bullet-riddled night.  
  
"You're on his detail," she commented, turning towards me after I'd settled into the driver seat.  
  
"Simon Donovan," I belatedly introduced myself, not smiling because I didn't think she wanted me to. She shook my hand and her palm was warm.  
  
"Thank you," she whispered under her breath, her voice muffled as I started the engine.  
  
"I'm sorry?" I'd heard what she said, but there was something deeper in the words than simple gratitude.  
  
"I just said.thank you," she reiterated firmly, her smile soft, delicate and definitely uncharacteristic. I nodded and backed the car out, wondering when I'd come up with a list of CJ's characteristics. But she felt familiar sitting next to me as I maneuvered the DC traffic; her perfume smelled just like it had that first day.  
  
I walked with CJ into the West Wing, aware of her subdued attitude and pale complexion. I needed to turn left and she right in order to get where we needed to be, and I was surprised when she reached out and grabbed my wrist.  
  
"Thanks for the ride," she looked me straight in the eye, "and for what you did back there, tonight."  
  
Her voice had trailed, as if there was a name to give what had happened but the words were just too hard to say. Her hand had somehow found mine and I gave it a squeeze. "I was just doing my job."  
  
She smiled, as if that were heroic. I assure you, nothing I did that night was heroic; we work on reflexes, like machines trained to act on cue. But there was admiration in her voice as she forced calm eyes. "Speaking of jobs.I have to brief the press now."  
  
I nodded and she walked away. I watched her, her shoulders never slumping despite the fact that she was shaken. And even though we were tired and there was a random soreness covering my entire body, I was still aware that she enchanted me. She held my attention, she was like a magnet.  
  
I was rooted in place, all the while thinking about the shooting. The only blood spilled had been that of the gunmen, one shooter dead at bullets from my own gun. I hated to think that those bodies didn't count, but in reality, the ones who mattered were still alive. Josh Lyman and the President of the United States: they were still hanging on. Leo and the staff, Butterfield and his agents.Not to mention CJ Cregg and her tired, dark eyes. There was nothing there to ease that ache, but I'd heard her tiny whispered thank you. I'd heard it and we were all still there. And she held my attention fast, long after she'd disappeared from view. * 


End file.
